32. Nero
NERO
Vanessa immediately follows Anastasia, who takes off for the exit. Zeno wastes no time in giving me the look, which I ignore, heading back to Elio and Gabriella, both of whom are observing the shitshow.
“I quit, you’re it.” I tap Elio’s chest on my way by him to the bar—because I can’t even make it through the one night Zeno requested sobriety without fucking something up.
After ordering a shot of their strongest liquor, I signal for another when realizing one isn’t cutting it. And then another to be certain, downing all three one after the other. My throat, chest, and stomach simultaneously burn, but it’s nothing compared to the other kind of burning in my chest.
A familiar feeling. One I’ve been stuck with for over a decade.
Guilt.
I order a fourth, ignoring the bartender’s uncertain grimace that’ll earn him a punch if he doesn’t do his fucking job and pour it. I’m the groom-to-be’s best man getting wasted right after the bride-to-be’s maid of honour took off—perfectly normal and nothing to be judgemental about.
Zeno’s going to slaughter me, which doesn’t sound too bad, actually. Fuck murdering Elite members to ease my conscience when death by his hand grants the same result.
“Another,” I demand, this time a snarl. “Without the fucking judgement.”
Zeno appears at my shoulder and crowds me against the bar, shoving me into the wood without making our fight obvious to others.
“You couldn’t make it one fucking night without scaring her off?
Explain why Vanessa had to chase after Anastasia after she was in your arms.” He intercepts my next shot, knocking the glass to the bar top and spilling the liquor, which the bartender immediately wipes up without looking at either of us.
“You’re done drinking, Nero. I’m not dealing with this tonight.
Get your shit together. That’s an order. ”
“Sì, signore.” Rage-fuelled matched by a curl of my lip. A look that from anyone else could be a death sentence due to my lack of respect.
From me, it’s a middle finger to our friendship.
The rest of the evening passes. I remain close to Elio—though I’m pretty sure he’s the one guarding me.
At some point, Zeno disappears as well and returns minutes later with his fiancée.
Anastasia is noticeably absent.
The ride home is tense as fuck. By some cruel twist of fate, I’ve ended up in the SUV with Vanessa and Zeno, while Dimitri, Katya, Lev, and Serafina take the other one. Elio’s driving Gabriella back to Ostia separately.
The bit of alcohol I managed to consume before Zeno single-handedly became my AA sponsor has unfortunately worn off, resulting in a sober drive home with the two people who’d rather see me hung by my toes than hear my stupidity out.
Once at the villa, I rush from the vehicle, ready to escape everyone and everything from tonight.
When I crack my door, tonight is sitting on the edge of my bed.
Those three shots must have destroyed me because there’s no way I’m sober. Sober people don’t see the object of their addiction—in my case, Anastasia—seated on the edge of my bed, still dressed from the party.
I rub my eyes, but nope, she’s still here. Staring at me with more vulnerability than I’d known her to possess within her gorgeous body. She’s fiddling with a pillow on her lap—protection, this much I presume.
As I step inside the room and shut the door, still not certain she’s physically here, her eyes slowly lift from the pillow to the floor by my feet. Then onto me, travelling up my body. She stops on my shirt, lingering by the collar.
“I’m sorry.”
I’m definitely drunk.
“Don’t be.” As much as I want to go to her, I don’t. I force myself to remain busy, as if my lungs aren’t working overtime to catch my breath, by sliding off my suit’s jacket and undoing my cuffs. “Don’t apologize. I took it too far. I’m the asshole.”
Her lips twitch, agreeing with me in her own way. “It isn’t your fault. I was the bitch. I ran when I should have stayed and explained.” Her shoulders curl inwards as she hugs the pillow tighter, nails embedding into the edges. “Your comment felt possessive.”
Because it was.
She waits until I cross the room, plug my cell in on my nightstand, and position myself in front of her. I’m lost in my own bedroom, but dragging over a chair feels stupid and sitting beside her might spook her. I’ll cut off my own hand before she bolts before this—whatever this is—finishes.
“When Vanessa overturned the old Bratva, I promised myself no man would never own or control me again. What you said out there brought it back. I freaked out and didn’t react well—didn’t communicate that—and I…I apologize.”
Her tone. Her eyes. Her frown. All have the power to drive me to my knees. I’d already be there if she didn’t continue.
“It wasn’t fair of me to run away.” Her head dips, hair falling between us.
It wasn’t fair of me to make you relive your trauma.
“I’m sorry. It’s nowhere near enough, but I am. I didn’t know.” I’ve taken something from her. Something I didn’t realize I had the power to steal.
She huffs lightly, fingers digging into the pillow I’m starting to grow jealous of. “No one besides Vanessa does. Old memories came rushing back, and it freaked me out.”
Old memories—She’s hinted at not having good prior relationships, but I never considered the extremes they might have affected her because I’m that kind of asshole, and I’ll acknowledge that now. To do better. To consider her individually.
“Who?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
It does, but pushing the case could bring us backwards from what the past few minutes gained, so I slide the argument away for a later day.
“I panicked,” she continues, now tracing the edge of the pillow.
“I panicked because it’s not possible to ignore you any longer.
I like you, Nero, and don’t know what to do about it because I don’t do…
this.” Her nose scrunches. The very thought of being with someone not only foreign but unwanted.
“You’re not someone to run away from, and I know that. I have to keep reminding myself of it.”
“You ran from me once. A decade later, you’ve come back.”
The reminder of our past cracks her resolve a bit, but I move before she finds a reason to escape before getting the chance to tell her the rest. I lower myself to my knees in front of her, placing myself entirely at her mercy.
She could kick me, punch me, or even slit my throat while I’m unarmed, kneeling for forgiveness.
“You scare me too, Anastasia. I can’t stay away from you, no matter how much we both want me to. Even your hatred gives me something to latch onto.” I pause, chewing on the inside of my mouth while wishing hard for another shot to get me through this new kind of pain. “Do you trust me?”
Minutes pass. She picks at the pillow, scrunches her eyes, licks her lips—and then does it all over on rotation.
“I don’t know,” she finally admits in a hoarse whisper. “A part of me does. I think about it often. Then I get scared and realize I don’t. I’m trying to, Nero, I really am.”
I’ll take it.
Hesitant, I pry her fingers from the pillow to place her hand in mine. She’s colder than normal and feels smaller than ever as I bring her hand to my mouth to kiss the back of her knuckles. “I’ll wait forever if it means I gain your trust in the end. Take your time.”
She covers my hand with her other, frowning. “Unless it takes too long to get there.”
“Trust doesn’t have a deadline, cara mia.”
“You say that now.”
“I’ll say it always.”
Her frown is still hesitant, but I’m not sure if there’s anything more to say tonight that’ll erase it, or if it’s something she’ll need to come to terms with. To build trust so she gives me hers in return.
“I should go.” She starts to slide her hands away while nudging the pillow off her lap, but I lift to my feet and block her with my body.
“Can you do one thing for me? Something that’ll prove I’m worthy of your trust.”
“What?” She mouths it more than whispers it.
“Spend the night with me. Here.” My hand reaches for her, tucking strands of her hair behind her ear. “Only to sleep. After today, I don’t want you to be alone, and I’d like the opportunity to prove I’m not the kind of man who’ll attack you in your sleep.”
Eyes on my hand, she doesn’t shy away, which I take as a win. “We’ve slept in the same bed twice, so I know that already.”
“It’s different. We’ve communicated. Now, we should put it all in practice.” Backing away, I work at my tie before tossing it onto the floor, and then start unbuttoning my shirt. “I’ll get you something to wear.”
As I walk away, she calls out, “I didn’t agree to this.”
Pulling on behaviours that brought us together before today and hoping it’ll ease her anxiety, I toss a wink over my shoulder. “But you will.”
After a few seconds, steps trail me. With my back to her, my grin remains hidden. She reaches the closet by the time I’ve chosen a black tee for her and snatches it without meeting my eyes. She rushes into the bathroom as if fire licks at her heels.
When she returns, her earlier panic over my comment no longer means anything. Her being dressed in my shirt sends the same message. She may not want to be mine, but tonight, something shifted between us, and wearing my shirt seals that.
Anastasia Petrov will be mine, whether she wants to be or not.
I just can’t tell her that.